It’s like they have poetry in the back of a van with its mouth duct taped shut and its legs, arms, consonants and vowels bound.
They drive all over Ohio, the US and the world spreading their disingenuous venom and there is no antidote to the stupidity these hacks are bringing to this Jonestown party.
Art should never be about a cult of personality and if you don’t leave your ego at the door then I’m not interested in the dish you’ve brought to our poetry potluck extravaganza.
You keep using the word powerhouse like if you say it enough a mangy stuffed duck will drop from the ceiling and Groucho will let you stroke his greasepaint mustache before his brothers come to carry him home.
It’s not like that Josh, the publishing and the winning as you put it because without quality work all that’s left are smokestacks blowing their tops as we take yet another bite out of this poisoned apple.
I’m not immune to wishing I was a part of this card carrying club of zombies and poet laureates though truth be told I’ve always been more fascinated in infamy as A Confederacy of Dunces channels our inner-assassins and the art we create not only saves us, but as well immortalizes us in anonymity.
Poetry must be set free otherwise it becomes just another award placed on the mantle like a holiday card from a family of serial killers you’ve been dodging your entire life of hits and near misses.
To be validated by a den of vipers only makes one a part of the problem as a death by a thousand cuts lands you smackdab in a deforested forest where no one makes the grade and everyone just wishes for this exercise in futility to finally be over.
Art’s the only thing that has ever had me feeling comfortable in my own skin and I will fight for the right to create no matter the cost as we’re taken down a peg or two by a foghorn blowing out its own brains on this our day of both death and rebirth.